


passerà

by whovian91011



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovian91011/pseuds/whovian91011
Summary: Where Grantaire is a former opera singer, and none of Les Amis know except Jehan.
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 116





	passerà

**Author's Note:**

> My first Les Mis and Enjoltaire fic, please be kind! XD
> 
> Inspired by this wonderful AGT audition [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGbOlEm72Ak)!

“This is a disaster,” Enjolras hissed. He was already fighting off the mushrooming migraine. He did not need this tonight.

Combeferre knew better than to place a calming hand on his shoulder when he was in such a state. Instead, he spoke calmly, “We still have time to figure this out.”

The blonde scoffed and smacked the pamphlet for emphasis. “Do we? Because I see it, we’re out of time.”

As part of the local university’s sociology department’s social series on queer voices, Les Amis contributed to the program by bringing together a group of LGTBQ+ artists to perform a free on-campus concert to promote said artists. Several of the performers were students looking for more exposure and came from the music department. Even some faculty who identified as queer had decided to perform. This was only after the miraculous acquiring of a local opera performer had influenced more people to sign up, a big kudos for Les Amis as an organization.

The only problem was that said local opera performer had yet to show.

“Maybe he’s just running late?” Courfeyac supplied helpfully, though judging from his expression he no sooner bought those words than Enjolras, who was ready to slam his head into the next available surface.

Musichetta, flagged by her boyfriends Bossuet and Joly, approached their table. The concert was well under way, as was originally planned, promising to save the best for last. Ha, Enjolras thought bitterly. “Any word?” she asked worriedly.

Enjolras groaned. “No. And the first hour is nearly over.”

She swore colorfully under her breath and welcomed the Bossuet and Joly’s comforting touches. Enjolras felt a flicker of envy at the display of intimacy and was quick to ignore it. “Eponine as the contact information sheet. Tell her to keep getting in touch with them until -”

“Tell her yourself,” spoke the devil herself, who bounded up the steps with determination, her long dark hair fluttering in her haste. Her expression was pinched and looked very well pissed off. 

He froze. “Don’t tell me.”

Disgusted, Eponine shoved the smartphone into his hand and folded her arms angrily. “The bastard decided the hour was too inconvenient and decided it wasn’t in his best interest to ‘partake.’”

It wasn’t exactly how the text read, but she gave the gist of it. Scowling, Enjolras handed him back the phone. “Take it before I text something I’ll regret.”

“Oh, I’m already on it,” she muttered darkly and walked away, typing away furiously. 

“We need to figure something out. Now,” Enjolras demanded against the sudden pounding inside his head.

“Maybe we can have a few of the performers come back and do something of an encore?” Bossuet suggested. There was a rapid fire discussion of the merits of that, and Enjolras, exhausted from the increased anxiety, sat down heavily at the table and listened to everyone’s contribution.

Noticing his uncharacteristic silence, Combeferre, ever the wise medical student, fetched a bottle of water and handed it to him. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.” When he began to protest, Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “Would you like for me to recite the symptoms and ramifications of dehydration to you?”

Muttering under his breath, Enjolras unscrewed the cap and took a long sip from the bottle, all the while glaring. Combeferre didn’t take it personally.

That was when Jehan approached them, his sweet angelic face lined with worry. “Is it true? Did they really back out last minute?”

Enjolras nodded jerkily and took another aggressive pull from his bottle. He looked up in time to notice Grantaire beside him. Grantaire, who was dressed in a long sleeved shirt that fit him like a glove, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his well-toned arms and a number of tattoos etched along his skin. He held an unlabeled bottle in his hand, because of course he did, he thought wearily. Any other time, he would have tried to take it away from him, seeing as their quite infamous arguments during Les Amis meetings – which Courfeyac had dubbed legendary, much to his chagrin – were often fueled by Grantaire’s intoxicated state. But right then, he didn’t have the energy. In fact, he was tempted to join him. More than tempted.

“Can anyone else perform the number?” Joly inquired. “What is it anyway?”

“Passerà. And it’s in Italian,” Musichetta replied. “Entirely. So unless if anyone’s fluent in Italian, I doubt it.”

“Who sings it?” Grantaire asked, his phone suddenly appearing in his hand.

Enjolras peered at him with an expression mixed with surprised suspicion. “I’m not sure. It should be on the list somewhere.”

Without being invited, Grantaire walked around the table and went through his papers, leaning over Enjolras’s shoulders to get a better look. The scent of his cologne or body wash or whatever it was drifted reached his nose. It was so good that the blonde fought the urge to bury his face into the crook of his neck and commit the smell to memory.

See, the thing about Grantaire was… It wasn’t something he consciously admitted to anyone, let alone himself, but there was something there between them, an electric current that ran through them. Whenever Grantaire was near him, he just felt on edge, as if the very nearness was enough to get under his skin, something that wasn’t entirely unwelcome. It had been there practically from the moment they first met, and years later, it was still there. If anything, time only made it worse. He wasn’t certain if he was alone in feeling it, but he knew right then, if Grantaire got any closer…

“Ah, there it is,” he murmured when he found the page he was looking for. He reached for it, his hand grazing Enjolras’s, who went absolutely still. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“What?” he asked distractedly, prompting the other man to look at him in confusion.

“I’m just gonna take this,” Grantaire remarked slowly, taking the paper with the song title and artist name before Enjolras could object. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”

Enjolras stared at him, becoming more fully alert. “When you’re done with what?”

Grantaire grinned ironically. “When I’m done saving your act.” He drank from his bottle and set it down on the table.

Enjolras’s eyes widened in dismay. “No, no, Grantaire. What are you planning to do?”

Grantaire shrugged and began to rise but paused when the blonde grabbed him. “I’m filling in for this no show opera guy.”

Dismay quickly gave way to panic. Enjolras’s grip tightened. Grantaire’s track record with Les Amis participation was less than stellar in the past. More often than not he missed deadlines and either showed up to events drunk or most often hungover, leaving the others to handle the responsibilities that he had volunteered to handle. And now he was talking about replacing the finale of the show and not just any spot either.

“No,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Looks to me you don’t have much of a choice.”

The blonde looked around and noticed, much to his irritation, that their friends were watching the exchange with growing interest. Ignoring them, he returned his attention to the problem at hand. “Do you even know Italian?” he demanded.

Grantaire shrugged. “Not much but give me an hour.”

“You don’t have an hour!” Enjolras hissed, his hands lying firmly on the table.

“Then you better let me go, Ange.” And without further ado, Grantaire rounded the table, quickening his pace as Enjolras lunged for him. 

“Grantaire, come back here!” he shouted over the swell of music but to no avail. “Damn!”

“Enjolras…” Courfeyac attempted to soothe him but after a slight shake of Combeferre’s head, decided against it.

“We have less than an hour ago, and he does this.” He covered his face in his hands. “Christ, I hope he’s not hopelessly drunk.”

“It’s going to be fine, Enjolras,” Jehan said. He was the only one present who didn’t look the slightest bit stressed by the situation. “He can do this.”

Enjolras snorted, and Jehan glanced at him sharply, which silenced any further comment he had intended to make. Jehan might have appeared innocent and sweet with his sinewy form, long hair, and relaxed demeanor, but if you ever make the mistake of crossing him, you would regret it immediately. 

With Jehan’s reassurance and the situation resolved (huge question mark and multiplying), the rest of the Amis relaxed, but not Enjolras, who finished off the bottle of water anxiously and was doing his best not to think about it. 

Soon enough, the finale had arrived. The announcer introduced the man who had garnered so much attention and participants for the concert. Grantaire probably hadn’t bothered to inform her either, he considered with a wince. Unconsciously, he reached for Grantaire’s abandoned bottle.

Grantaire stepped out onto the stage and greeted the crowd with a roguish smile. “Good evening. I know you were expecting someone different for the closing, but he couldn’t make it. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll try not to butcher the song too bad.”

“Oh, God.” Enjolras tightened his grip on the bottle. If he had been able to relax, he would have noticed the change in which Grantaire presented himself, but instead, his own nerves were getting the best of him.

The first few notes of music began to play. Grantaire removed the microphone from its stand, holding it in his hand as if weighing it and brought it up to his lips, which parted.

_“Passerà, passerà  
Se un ragazzo e una chitarra sono lì  
Come te, in città”_

The deep tenor of Grantaire’s voice, the soft power in those few words, were enough for Enjolras to nearly drop the bottle. He sat there stunned, transfixed the sound of his voice. That… that couldn’t be coming from him. 

_“A guardare questa vita che non va  
Che ci ammazza d'illusioni  
Con l'età delle canzoni”_

The growing power as each note elevated it was breathtaking. And it wasn’t just his voice that had Enjolras unable to remove his gaze from him. The more he sang, the more Grantaire transformed in front of his very eyes. Gone was the sad, cynical drunk that exchanged biting barbs during Amis meetings, no ironic or bitter smile to be seen. Instead stood this man who embodied the essence of confidence of someone who knew what they were doing, someone who had clearly done this before and excelled. He held himself tall and projected confidently, and seeing him this way, struck Enjolras speechless.

_“Passerà prima o poi  
Questo piccolo dolore che c'è in te  
Che c'è in me, che c'è in noi  
E ci fa sentire come marina”_

“Who the fuck knew R could sing?” Courfeyac demanded in a low hiss but Jehan shushed his boyfriend with a firm swat from his place in his lap.

“Sh, my son is singing,” Jehan reprimanded him without looking away from the stage, looking every bit of the proud parent.

_“In balia del vento e della nostalgia  
A cantare una canzone che non sai  
Come fa  
Ma quel piccolo dolore che sia odio, o che sia amore  
Passerà”_

Enjolras couldn’t think, couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Who was this person? How had he not Grantaire was capable of this? Had he been so blind, so ignorant, that he had overlooked this? Or was he simply just a bad friend? It dawned on him that Enjolras’s assumptions regarding Grantaire were foundationless. He clearly didn’t know the man at all, and this realization hurt more than any words could express.

Grantaire’s voice and power rose with each and every note as he lead into the crescendo. He opened his arms wide, welcoming the audience and sharing in their surprised delight. He engaged with them, grinning all the while, catering to them, playing to them. He was the living embodiment of an engaging showman.

_“Passerà (passerà), passerà (passerà)  
Anche se farai soltanto la la la  
Passerà, passerà  
E a qualcosa una canzone servirà  
Se il tuo piccolo dolore  
Che sia odio o che sia amore  
Passerà”_

As soon as the final note faded, a hush fell over the crowd, and then, after a beat, they went wild. Everyone rose to their feet and cheered. Like a professional, Grantaire accepted the applause with grace, standing there as long as the audience kept up their applause, which was actually a good while. Enjolras didn’t have a timer, but it could have easily been five minutes.

“What just happened?” Joly asked, dumbstruck.

“I have no fucking idea,” Courfeyrac admitted, equally shocked He turned his gaze towards Jehan, eyes narrowing playfully. “You knew about this?”

Jehan shrugged, but his grin ruined his nonchalant charade. “It’s a long story, not mine to tell, but I’m oh so proud of him.” His expression softened. “It’s been quite a long time for him.”

As their friends began voicing their shocked admiration all at once, Enjolras took a long drag from Grantaire’s bottle only to taste root beer. 

\---

“You said you didn’t speak Italian.” The words sounded more accusatory than he had intended, but Enjolras had only just managed to recover from the shock of a lifetime.

Looking up, Grantaire appeared startled. “How did you find me?”

“Jehan,” he admitted sheepishly, tucking his hands inside his coat pockets.

It hadn’t been easy, but after finally convincing him of his need to find Grantaire, Jehan had finally told him where he thought he might go. And feeling another twinge of envy, this time for his friend’s better knowledge of Grantaire than he possessed, he’d sought to find him. They were currently residing in the room above the bar in the Musain. 

The other man ducked his head, smiling that cynical smile that Enjolras had grown to despise, especially now that he had just witnessed a genuine smile from the man, and said, “Jehan. The poor dear. Hopeless romantic, he is.” He took a drag of his cigarette and looked towards the night sky.

Enjolras felt a fluttering inside his chest but did not allow himself to process what Grantaire meant. Instead, he joined him on the balcony and observed the crowd below. “You didn’t tell any of us you could sing either.”

Grantaire shrugged, his shoulder grazing his. “There wasn’t much to tell. Besides, Jehan knew. Figured he would’ve mentioned it.”

“No, he kept your secret.”

This time Grantaire smiled, and it was a hint of what Enjolras had witnessed on stage earlier that evening. “He’s a good friend.”

Enjolras returned the smile. “He is. They all are.” Then his smile faded. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same for myself.”

Frowning, Grantaire turned to him. “Enjolras…”

The blonde shook his head, refusing to be deterred. “No, I have been. And I don’t wish to be any longer.” Guilt settled inside his heart, along with a number of other things. “I want to know more about you. Where you’ve come from, what you like, all of it. You’re so much more than I ever thought you were, and for that, I apologize.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“Yes, I do,” Enjolras insisted. Then his train of thought was briefly derailed as the night air tousled Grantaire’s hair, making the mass of dark curls even wilder. Unable to help himself, he reached out and brushed back the few that were in his face. He felt the other man tense and guiltily began to retract his hand when Grantaire’s hand was on his wrist, holding him in place, holding him steady. 

The blonde swallowed nervously, deciding to bite the bullet. “And if one day, you can see me as something more than a friend, I… would like that very much.”

Grantaire murmured something under his breath and leaned his face into Enjolras’s hand. His eyes squeezed shut before nuzzling against his palm. Enjolras’s heart raced. “ _Mon ange_. You really have no idea, do you?”

He kissed the blonde’s palm affectionately before opening his eyes to meet Enjolras’s wondrous gaze. “Where would you like to start?” he asked, suddenly shy, releasing his hand.

Smiling, Enjolras murmured, “Wherever you like.” He reached for his hand. “If you permit it, that is.”

Grantaire laced his fingers through his. “Haven’t you learned by now, Ange, where you lead, I will follow.”


End file.
